The Warrior
by CowboysRednecksandParamedics
Summary: Johnny can't sleep, so he tries his hand at writing a story about a medieval knight. Please comment what you thought below! Thanks :)
"I failed at writing a TV show, so maybe I could try my hand at something else!" Johnny Gage lay on his back, staring at the roof of Station 51, talking quietly to himself. He couldn't sleep a wink; he didn't know why but hoped it wasn't a replay with the battle with insomnia he had fought a while back.

The sudden thought struck him as a good idea. Maybe using his eyes to read would tire them out enough for him to catch a few "z's". The dark-haired paramedic sat up and threw the blankets back to reveal almost blindingly white legs. Pale, at least in contrast to his tanned arms and neck. He pulled up the pants and boots that always sat neatly beside the cot and tried to clomp somewhat quietly out to Cap's office. As he entered, he glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly midnight.

"What should I write about this time?" Johnny leaned back in the twirly chair and clasped his hands behind his head, trying to imitate the way Cap did. Letting his mind wander, he finally landed on what he thought to be a solid idea; a medieval knight who had defected from the army. He had watched a movie about something like that the other night.

Sitting down at the chair in front of the typewriter, he readied up his two pointer fingers and proceeded to jab them mercilessly at the keys. Many times he growled low in his throat and ripped the paper out of the machine in anger, crumpling it up and tossing it like it was a tiny basketball to the waste basket.

But finally one paper survived. It turned into two papers, almost three.

 _EMERGENCY!_

The full moon shown down upon the earth, turning frosted blades of grass to silver-tipped daggers, and the water in the lake into crystal mirrors that shattered and distorted any image reflected at the slightest infraction upon their transpicuous surfaces. Giant coniferous trees towered towards the sky as their green skirts shaded the ground with a thick protective canopy that carpeted the moist dirt with fresh-smelling needles that withered from deep green to faded red within a few days time of their departure from the life-giving branch. Wind whispered through these pines, soft and gentle as a baby's breaths, yet full of potential destruction and calamity. To the east, the tall mountains, quiet and serene under a thin blanket of snow, reached upwards as if longing for the twinkling stars so far above to fall into the palm of mortal man.

A lone figure walked silently along the shore of the lake. It was a young man, clothed in the fine garb of a warrior. Beneath a protective outer layer of chainmail, a black tunic hung a little past the man's knees, tied at his waist by a scarlet sash made of the finest silk in the land. Emblazoned on his chest, a crest of two ferocious lions, one ebony and one ivory, were entangled in combat on a yellow background. At his side a polished sword gleamed viciously in the grey luminescence, the sterling steel of its blade easily capable of cutting a belligerent mercenary in two.

Curiously enough, what seemed to be a ghostly apparition hovered over the warrior's footprints some ten feet behind the warrior. Clothed in an argent dress, the follower moved with a gracefulness of a blossoming young woman. The downturned visage of the phantomly figure was shrouded by a fur cloak about the shoulders and head, revealed when the a pasty hand emerged from the lavish folds of the cloak and pulled back the hood to reveal a girl's face so beautiful that it could be compared to that of a cherub. The face of the girl was illuminated by the moon's sterling glow, softening her features and making her appearance that of a rose-haired angel. Within her cerulean eyes, a violent struggle ensued within her soul; deep grief and separation seemed to overtake the childhood joy and innocence that adulthood had attempted to rob her of already. The girl dogged the warrior's every step, sometimes reaching out to him with outstretched arms, trembling like a sapling in the virulent winds of a storm, yet never moving a step closer or a step away from him; she kept a decent distance at which he could hear her cries and see the pearl-like tears slide down her snowy cheeks.

The girl was a most interesting facet of the unceasing trek of the unexpected pair around the starlit, frost-kissed lakeshore, but perhaps the most peculiar aspect of the wanderer was the theatrical mask that sheathed his face from the non-existent prying eyes that he seemed to be sure where lurking in the shadows beyond the shores of the lake.

The mask's joyful expression was carved out of mahogany wood, leaving two upturned crescents for the smiling eyes. Fluid dips and curves burned into the wood and the pale pink and red paint that adorned it's cheerful cheeks gifted the mask a certain unusual beautiful, charismatic strangeness that's secret was unidentifiable to any onlooker. The shadows cast upon the face of the mask ignited fearful terror, a terror of things hidden and unknown, that somehow the mask may suddenly breathe in life, and chase away good and right in the world.

As the moon watched silently from it's lofty resting place among the wispy leftovers of the day's pearl colored clouds turned sooty gray, the young warrior grew tired and fell to his knees on the sand. With a shaking hand, he pried the mask off his face and held it before him, staring at it with terror. He drew it to his chest and held it there as salty tears zigzagged down his dusty cheeks.

The young man was dirty and tired, his blonde hair mussed and astray. A few day's worth of beard shaded his gaunt cheeks, and dark circles accentuated his dark brown eyes. His shoulders were broad and strong but marred with scars from severe lashings.

The mask still clutched to his heart, the warrior lifted his face to the ebony sky and let out a wretched cry. He jumped to his feet and flung the mask into the depths of the still lake, watching as it sank slowly to the bottom, spiraling out of sight into the dark abyss of the unknown. As the mask disappeared forever, lost in the catacombs of the warrior's memory, the young warrior's tired back straightened, the lashes on his bloodied back stretching and cracking and crimson droplets forming on the raw edges. The droplets swelled until they could no longer hold on and then they trickled down, staining the black tunic to a earthy brown.

Pain inscribed on the warrior's face, he turned to face the girl in the silver dress, extending his arm towards her as if beckoning her to rush to him. The girl stood like a stone statue, her aqua eyes staring at the warrior's fingertips.

Fluttering movements in the shadows did not draw attention from the warrior or the girl, who stood transfixed by each other's gazes. With a loud howl of victory, an ugly beast, the size of a horse, the head of a black lion, and the body of a bear, blood stains on his crooked and broken fangs, plunged from the murky dark and leapt upon the warrior, slaying him.

Then it bounded away, unharmed, back into the forest to prey upon it's next helpless victim. The warrior's torn, broken body lay on the lakeshore, his warm blood coloring the icy frost touched sand deep russet. The girl was still inanimate, arm outstretched, eyes glassy and unseeing. As the wind increased, a layer of ice crystalized around the girl's bare feet, growing and expanding, climbing upwards until it had enveloped her whole body, drawing away her breath and the sight from her eyes.

 _EMERGENCY!_

Johnny wasn't sure what had happened to his fingers. It was as though they had taken control of themselves and transcribed the story. But however it had been written, Johnny thought it was beautiful, no matter what the ending. It was like life, he thought. All life was specially created and was beautiful no matter what happened or the ending or the beginning.


End file.
